My experience is that neither the Go players nor the philosophers have deep understanding of Go. The Go players have practice in the culture of Go, while philosophers often know philosophy.
The problem is that Go is actually not a game, while people believe that it is. Go are belief systems, and cultures, and in that respect similar to Zen.
The reason that Go is not a game, is that it do not have clear rules. The only people I know that have practical and deep understanding of Go is John Tromp, who has made some nice Go rules, and Robert Jasiek, who claim to have formalized the Japanese practice into rules.
As for me, I gave up the "game" when I realized it had no true core, and the same goes for Zen.
The problem is that Go is actually not a game, while people believe that it is.
Massive semantic confusion. Just because the word "Go" is used to denote a family of games and game-like activities doesn't mean there can't be concrete realizations of the concept that capture most or all of its interesting qualities. Concluding that the game has "no true core" and giving it up, merely because its label is too broad for your taste, strikes me as very confused thinking.
In the traditions of Zen in which koans are common teaching tools, it is common to use a particular story as a novice's first koan. It's the story of Joshu's Dog.
What does this koan mean? How can we find out for ourselves?
It is important to remember certain things: Firstly, koans are not meant to be puzzles, riddles, or intellectual games. They are examples, illustrations of the state of mind that the student is expected to internalize. Secondly, they often appear paradoxical.
Thirdly, the purpose of Zen teaching isn't to acquire new conceptual baggage, but to eliminate it; not to generate Enlightenment, but to remove the false beliefs that preventing us from recognizing what we already possess. Shedding error is the point, not learning something new.
Take a look at Mumon's commentary for this koan:
I'll give you a hint: Joshu's reply isn't really an answer to the monk's question, it's a response induced by it. Joshu answers the question the monk didn't ask but should have - the question whose answer the monk is taking for granted in what he asks.
This morning I passed by a gym with a glass-walled front, and I saw within the building many people working at machines, moving weights back and forth. What was being accomplished? Superficially, nothing at all. Their actions would appear to be wasted; nothing was done with them. The real purpose, of course, was to exercise the body, to condition the muscles and strengthen the bones.
The point of the koan isn't to find the 'right answer', the point of the koan is to struggle with it, and by struggling, develop one's own understanding. Contradiction and apparent contradiction is a powerful tool for this purpose. Trying to understand, we usually perceive a contradiction and let the process terminate. But if we keep struggling with the problem, even though we cannot expect to achieve anything, we build within ourselves ever more complex models, ways of seeing. Eventually the complexity will be useful in dealing with other problems, ones with solutions we didn't see before.
One warning: the fact that a problem is used as a source of contradiction does not mean that it doesn't actually have an answer. Don't mistake the use for the reality.
Has a dog Buddha-nature?
This is the most serious question of all.
If you say yes or no,
You lose your own Buddha-nature.